Tales from the Emergency Department; in which a man who wallows in nostalgia, and secretly wishes he were a Victorian KnifeMan rants about his work and what passes for a life.
He's heard it might be therapeutic...
Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Any resemblence to parties alive or dead is purely coincidental

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

If there's a better version of this song, I don't know of it... I can't find live footage, except of the Altamont version, which is slightly disquieting, as we all know some poor bastard is getting stabbed to death in the background...Anyway, I commend you especially to the guitarwork from about 3 minutes in; let us glory in the fine work of Richards and Taylor.

Cheers.

P.S The second guitar solo, for those who care, is, I think the better , and Mick Taylor.

Swine 'flu continues to rumble on in the background, although it seems this wave has broken. Now, we wait for the second wave in the Autumn.

BBC4 has run a few interesting 'docudramas' recently, one on the Penicillin story, and, more recently, one on the 1918 'Spanish 'flu' outbreak. Well timed to help keep hype levels cranked up to 11. Except that, being on BBC4, I expect most people missed it.

As far as I can see, pandemics are a lose-lose situation for any Government. Either you 'over-react' and close shit down, and nothing much happens (quite possibly because you closed shit down), and everyone gets cross; or, you 'under-react' and people die, and then people get cross.

It's an interesting time to be an health care professional. This 'flu doesn't seem any more virulent than regular 'flu, which makes over-reaction all the more likely. Unlike in 1918, young, fit healthy folks are not dying in their droves. There has been no cytokine storm.

Will there be?

Watch this space.

Is it possible that, in fact, in 1918, the virus was much as it is today, but that a world freshly riven by war presented potential carriers more susceptible to its onslaught? I can't help but fell that society today, for all its fat, wheezy kids, is healthier than 90 years ago.

I guess we'll see in the Autumn and Winter.

What the desire to keep people at arms length has provoked is a concern that we'll get it wrong. Dr C touches on this far better than I could, but let's be honest, you don't need to be a genius to figure out that telephone diagnosis is DANGEROUS. Especially when your criteria are so vague.

I can only assume that someone, somewhere has weighed up the options: the flooding of the health service by ?'flu patients, versus the occasional death by misdiagnosis, and decided that this is the lesser of two evils.

On leave, so not much medicine. La Bell Fille is away, living it up, demonstrating that, yes teachers get beater holidays than doctors, but that they are also better at managing their money than, at least, this doctor.

If I think I'm underpaid, don't get me started on teachers.

Seriously, how important do you think education is?

The amount people pay for 'private' education answers the question.

It's just a shame, as with pay per service health care, that we (the high earners) don't want to pay for everyone to have the good stuff.

Last shift before leave, a night shift I swapped with Giganticus. It was, with a certain degree of inevitability, awful. Had to call the Boss in - first time in years. Multi vehicle pile up. Nothing we couldn't deal with, but the waiting time was going to go to shit, and in the current climate this is, arguably, more important.

So, the unwelcome early morning call.

Only one really sick. The Surgeon, Snowball's husband, a fella I quite like. Even if he is very surgeon. I call him, give him the dope.

Can't you get a scan? The question is born partly of modern surgical practice, which seems to start with CT scan, before even history, and partly of his being asleep.

I'm cautious, at first. I suggest he won't get to the scanner, or if he does, he won't make it back. I suggest this is one he really ought to see before the scan.

God love him, he demurs, and appears in the room. He tasks one look at the poor bugger's colour, and his numbers, resolutely resistant to the fluid we're pouring in.

Straight to theatre for this one.I thought so.

The rest of the night breaks me, and I can barely see straight at the end. I tell myself thismust be age, finally catching up on me. I pass H on the way out, my last shiftchangewith her, and I'm sorry for it, for she was good, is good at her job, and I enjoyed working with her. I struggle to find a way to express this that doesn't sound either cheesy, a come-on or both.

I mumbled something, undoubtedly inadequate.

Ships that pass, and all that.

Shock boy made it out of theatre, which, sometimes, is as much as you can ask.

Saturday, August 01, 2009

I'm a little concerned the previous post might not read as i intended. It is not meant as a criticism, but as an attempt to demonstrate that, no matter how hard you work, no matter how good you are, sometimes fate deals you a shit hand, and then takes half your cards away.

That sometimes shit happens, and then happens a bit more, just to rub your nose in it. That when you think it can't get any worse, sometimes, it does.

Legal Disclaimer

All the patient details reperesented here are composite. The details of my movements and activities are as accurate as I can make them, but the rest is largely made up. The Shroom's opinions do not represent those of the NHS at large, and should not be taken as a substitute for seeing a proper doctor. Lastly, and for what its worth, all the material herein is copyright The Shroom, and I reserve the right to send large bald men to your place of residence if you reproduce it without permission.